


Apt Pupil

by AngelGirl4212



Category: Apt Pupil (1998)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-28
Updated: 2020-12-28
Packaged: 2021-03-01 18:54:13
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 20
Words: 9,758
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23891905
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AngelGirl4212/pseuds/AngelGirl4212
Summary: Todd Bowden is in college now but is he truly free of Kurt Dussander?
Relationships: Todd Bowden/Original Male Character
Comments: 2
Kudos: 2





	1. Prologue

Disclaimer: All recognizable characters are being used without permission. They were created by Stephen King and can be found in the collection Different Seasons. The characters as they appear here, it must be said, more closely resemble those appearing in Bryan Singer's adaptation of King's novella.

“You're killing your soul with an audience looking on.”

-The Whitlams

“Suppose damnation is eternal! A man who wants to mutilate himself is certainly damned, isn't he? I believe I am in Hell, therefore I am. This is the catechism at work. I am the slave of my baptism. My parents, have ruined my life, and your own. Poor child!- Hell is powerless against pagans-I am still alive! Later on, the delights of damnation will become more profound. A crime, quick and let me fall to nothingness, condemned by human law.”

-Arthur Rimbaud

“Amor vincit omnia.”

-Virgil

Epilogue

Edward French left and Todd breathed an audible sigh of relief. He had been waiting for the other shoe to drop and it finally had. French had said his piece; he had handled it. It was over.

Entering the house with legs too shaky to support him. Todd dropped the basketball on the kitchen floor. It would sit on the tasteful ceramic tile, up against one of the fashionably designed cabinets, until Monica moved it some hours later. For now though, it sat forgotten as Todd routinely dropped three aspirin tablets into his palm. For months now, Monica had watched him with maternal concern while Todd's use of the painkiller complained of frequent headaches. (Dick urged by his wife's concern, had asked him about it once which Todd replied “It's probably stress from school, Dad. Gotta keep those grades up.” He had flashed a typically Todd smile and the conversation had been forgotten).

Swallowing the tablets with ice water from the fridge, Todd let his legs give out. He collapsed, baselessly hitting the floor, as the world around him faded to a grey static.

***

Kurt Dussander was standing inches from his face. His uniform crisp and neat as the rest of his person. The term “Prussian Efficiency” welled up in the back of Todd's brain, but the bite of the cold air kept the thought trapped there. Looking down, Todd realized that he was wearing nothing but thin paper. It was on the tip of his tongue to complain when Dussander spoke.

“Don't bother, boy. It's a nightmare you're having while lying in another one of your faints on your parents' nice American floor.”

“What do you want?”

“Boy, you ask the wrong questions. Maybe you always have, huh? The question,” Dussander paused, his polished boots clicking together despite the snow between them, “is what do **you** want?”

Todd regarded him with open disgust, “If I'm the one in control why are you the one in the uniform?”

Dussander smiled, teeth clearly visible and yellowed with years of nicotine, “Haven't you figured that out by now boy? I think that maybe we are fucking each other.” Dussander began to laugh; a horrible old man's laugh that spoke volumes of impending death. His laughing intercept with wheezing, wheezing that quickly changed into a hard and phlegm-filled cough.

Todd felt his head fill with the sounds of that laugh. Sounds quickly built into an unbearable pressure.

“Shut up!” he shouted at this laughing Dussander. “Shut up! Shut up! You're dead! You hear me, you dumb fuck?! You're dead and I'm free! I'm-” He stopped suddenly. Words still dying on his lips as his eyes focused in on his left arm. There on his arm, dark against the cold white flesh, was a number. “No,” the word was soft but his voice began to grow with panic. “No...No...No...No...No! We're fucking each other. You said we were fucking **each other**!”

Dussander's voice was calm, rational and almost pitying. “Boy. We are. You were on top for a while. Now it's my turn.”

The laughter began again and Todd felt his face burn hot with humiliation and helplessness.

(I will not cry. I will not cry)

***

“Oh my God! Dick!”

Dick knelt beside his unconscious son, quickly assessing the situation. “It's okay, baby. It just looks like he fainted. He should come around in a couple of minutes.”

Todd's eyes fluttered, “See? It'll be okay.” Dick turned from his wife to his child, addressing the young man in calm, soothing tones. “Todd? Come around, Sport.”

“Dad?”

“You're okay. Up you go,” Dick helped him into a sitting position. “Monica, get him a glass of water.”

“No, I'm okay. Really,” his voice was shaky, but his face was already regaining some of its lost colour. “I just need some air.”

“Alright. We're crowding now, aren't we?”

“A little.”

Seeing his parents concern, he flashed them a sunny smile. Satisfied, they both moved into the adjoining room. Neither had paid enough attention to realize that the smile didn't quite meet Todd's eyes. No, Todd was far from A-Okay. In fact, he was beginning to believe that he'd never truly be okay again.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Todd's Dad drives him to the college campus. On the way Todd has another dream.

“Are you nervous?”

Todd tied then retied his shoes, “No.”

Monica laughed and Todd had a sudden urge to pop her one in the face. Yeah, she wouldn't be laughing if blood was pouring out of her broken mouth...She sure wouldn't be laughing at him. Todd pushed the thought away with distaste. It wouldn't do to start beating your mother up. He was on his way up in the world. He had been accepted into a great school and everyone said he had a bright future ahead of him. Beating his mother would pour that bright future down the proverbial toilet. No. It was best to drive his fingernails into the soft flesh of his palms and pretend that she wasn't asking him to hit her.

“You're going to be okay, Toddy.”

“I know, Mom,” he smiled to hide the thoughts still running through his head. (Blood was gushing from her split lip and busted teeth. Eyes wide with pain and shock. “Why?” She silently asks while Todd reaches behind him for the kitchen knives. His eyes bright and alive....An erection straining in his pants).

Dick Bowden enters the kitchen, whistling before kissing his wife's temple and ruffling his son's hair.

“Ready to go Todd-o?”

“Yep. Car's already loaded and everything.”

“Good,” Dick smiled, enjoying the sight of his family. “I got to get on the old shoes, so I'll meet you outside.”

“Okay.”

No sooner did the screen door give testimony to Todd's exit did Monica turn to her husband, “He'll be okay, won't he?”

Dick looked up from his left shoelace. “Sure. Hon, it's been a rough year, but we're over the hump and Todd...Todd's a survivor. There's nothing to worry about. Look at him! We couldn't have done better.”

“I guess I'm just paranoid. I mean, my baby's leaving-”

“For **school** Mon, and he'll be back for Christmas break.”

“I know, it's just-”

The front door squeaked, “Are you coming?”

“Be right there Sport,” Dick kissed his wife again, this time on the lips. “Believe me. We have absolutely nothing to be worried about.”

***

The car ride was uneventful. Full of abandoned conversations and awkward pauses, neither really knew what to say and eventually this led to neither really saying anything. Todd found himself staring out the window watching the trees blur by. Eventually, the car's motion lulled him to sleep.

***

He was lying face down on stainless steel. He could hear movements from behind him but, no matter how far he craned his neck, seeing was impossible. It wasn't until Dussander moved in front of him that he even knew it was Dussander in the room. (A lie, if he was honest with himself. After all, wasn't he looking for Dussander?)

Dussander was naked; his aged body misshapen and flabby. Yet, he flipped through papers and checked controls without seeming overly concerned with his predicament.

It wasn't until Dussander stepped back behind him that Todd realized his own nakedness.

“Dussander, you stunned cunt-”

“Yes, boy?” There was that infuriatingly calm tone again.

“Let me up!”

“Oh you and your cocky American arrogance. You think you yell loud enough and you'll get what you want? Pah. You get nothing.”

“I swear, when I get out of here...”

“You'll what, boy? Do you even know? You need me, boy. You need me more than you've ever needed anyone.”

Todd felt something blunt and greasy probe the cleft of his buttocks, “You can't do this! You can't!”

“Quiet, boy.” Todd didn't need to see Dussander's face to know that he was smiling. “You're **mine** , boy.”

Dussander was about to thrust into his body when something hard and unexpected hit the side of his head. Todd cried out in pain-

***

-and woke up facing the door handle. His head hurt where it had hit the window and he didn't need to use the rear view mirror to discover the goose egg already forming there. Sitting up, he wiped the sleep from his eyes. Yawning, he struggled to wake up as the residence building loomed in front of them.

“Good. I was just going to wake you up.”

Todd smiled and accepted a stick of gum from his father's pocket. “No need.”

“Todd? Are you feeling okay? You look a little sick.”

“It's just nerves. I'll be okay when we get in.”

Dick Bowden parked the car in the visitor's parking lot and the chance for meaningful conversation was lost.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Todd meets his roommate, and has another dream.

Todd didn't like his roommate from the moment he first laid eyes on him. Another first year student, Chris was never going to amount to anything but another pot smoking asshole as far as Todd could see. But he hid his disgust, carefully keeping his face blank. His left eyelid ticked only as his own father was leaving.

“I have a feeling that the two of you are going to get along alright,” Dick had gushed while patting Todd's back.

And Todd had smiled and said goodbye before unpacking any of his things. Chris' things, on the other hand, were already unpacked. Posters, predominantly of Rambo, decorated his half of the room and disrupting the tastefully impersonalized feel that Todd's half would adopt.

“Do you like Rambo?” Chris asked, attempting small talk.

“Sure,” Todd had replied.(I'd like to see that fucking faggot dead. I'd like to see him gutted and hanging in front of one of those disgusting gay bars).

Chris seemed to brighten. “Really? I love Rambo. He's, like, my personal hero.”

Todd nodded, still smiling. (Yeah, I bet he is. Do you jerk off while picturing his face? Does he make you **hard**?)

“I think that he symbolizes the state of America. I mean, there's all this corruption, something drastic needs to be done.”

Todd tuned Chris out, nodding during appropriate pauses without really hearing anything. Chris seemed pathetically happy to have a sounding board, or more aptly put, Chris was just happy to have a **friend**. He raddled on about movies and music until Todd politely excused himself.

He went to the restroom. Locking the door, he daydreamed about splitting Chris' head open with a hatchet. Somewhere during the fantasy, Todd's hand tucked under his waistband and found his erect penis. Encircling the shaft, Todd masturbated to the daydreamed sounds of Chris screaming.

***

Todd was at home, under the railroad tracks. A knife was tucked safely into the band of his jeans and hidden by his coat. In the dark, just a few feet ahead of him was a middle-aged homeless man. His hair was receding and his nose bright red with years of alcoholism (a wino, supplied Todd's brain).

The wind whipped Todd's hair into his face. “Kill him,” said this wind in Dussander's voice. Todd pushed the blond strands out of his eyes.

Todd's hand felt for the knife handle and effortlessly pulled the knife free. Todd felt a measure of pride in this fact; a measure that the rest of him tried to suppress. How could he be free if Dussander still had this effect on him?

On its own, the knife raised, dragging his hand up with it. “Dussander!”

“Yes, boy?”

“Stop it! You'll ruin everything.”

The knife plunged down and Todd felt an exploding pleasure in the way the knife easily slid through the wino's flesh. The wino screamed but, like always, he had stopped struggling after the first couple of thrusts. Todd was lost in the sensations; burying the knife to the hilt and feeling it tear out. He didn't need Dussander's help anymore, he was doing just fine on his own. It wasn't until he dropped the knife in exhaustion that he realized that somewhere during the attack, the wino had transformed...

Todd found himself staring into his roommate's lifeless eyes.


	4. Chapter 4

As Todd lay sleeping three hours away, Chris lay quietly watching the ceiling. His ever-present long sleeved shirt was abandoned in Todd's absence. Self-inflicted scars were clearly visible. Chris absent-mindedly traced several of them with his fingers; the intimacy of the action so sensual that it was almost like masturbating.

His penis jumped at the thought and Chris reached down to touch it. Lazily, his fingers traced his erection; running down the shaft and gently thumbing over the head. A soft moan escaped his slightly parted lips and Chris arched into his hand.

Chris closed his eyes. They slipped shut with a sigh. In his mind, another hand touched his. Warm and sensual, they gently moved his own hands away. Chris whimpered at the loss of contact. He opened his eyes and found himself staring into the deep blue ones of his roommate.

“Shhh,” the fantasy Todd said.

Todd's pink tongue darted out; catching drips of precum, playing with his slit. Chris arched into his mouth, his penis pushing until it was completely surrounded. Surprisingly, Todd didn't gag; instead, his lips wrapped expertly around Chris' shaft.

“Oh my God,” Chris cried. “So good...”

He came and Todd let Chris' softening penis drop from his lips; a string of semen stretched then broke between them. More semen splattered on Todd's chin, semen that Chris desperately wanted to lick off.

“Kiss me,” Chris commanded and Todd moved up, their parted lips now only inches apart.

They were about to touch when Chris felt the fantasy slipping away. He groaned, his real eyes opening. Chris wiped his hand off onto his sheet. The sheet and blanket were both tossed to the floor. Rolling over, he fell asleep.

***

Chris woke up to the sounds of birds chirping outside his bedroom window. He was still naked and, with his covers still on the floor, he was cold. Goosebumps covered his flesh and the soft hairs on the nape of his neck were standing on end. He stood, bent over and picked up his soiled coverings. He sighed, dropping the mess into the clothes hamper.

After stealing the blanket from Todd's bed, Chris laid back down. He pulled the borrowed blanket to his chin. His eyes felt heavy and he began falling asleep. The sleep didn't last long enough. Just as his dream Todd began tongue fucking his navel (and God did that ever feel good), the phone rang.

“Shit,” Chris swore. His fingers dug the sleep from his eyes while he forced himself to wake up enough to answer the phone. “Hello.”

“Chris?” the voice was a little nervous, but instantly recognizable. “I'm just calling to let you know that Ronnie's in jail.”

“Good. That fucker can rot there.”

“Don't say that!” her voice was harsh.

“Mom, Ronnie's an asshole and it's about time he got what he deserved.”

“I thought you said that he deserved a shot in the head with a .32,” the bitterness was clear and Chris had to hold down the laughter that began bubbling inside his head.

“So, I missed. Big deal,” he shrugged. “Mom, let him go. He's no good for you.”

“I knew calling you as a mistake.”

Chris took a deep breath, trying hard not to let her get to him this time...trying not to call her a stunned cunt and ask her if she really liked getting smacked around. Instead, he took several more deep breaths, mentally counting to ten as slowly as he could. He felt himself calm down.

“Mom, I'm sorry, really, but you know how I feel about Ronnie,” another breath (in and out). “Look, I'll call you later.”

He hung up. He didn't even wait for her to say goodbye.


	5. Chapter 5

Todd had just come out of the shower, his hair still slightly plastered to his face and his towel wrapped firmly around his waist. The nightmares had gotten worse; the latest one had sent him to the shower with the hopes of washing the memory off of himself. He had been doing reasonably well too, until he had run out of hot water. The douse of cold had shocked his system, putting him back on edge...not to mention that it had pissed him off. He was so ticked that he had even cut his face shaving. There was a small nick on the sensitive flesh just above his top lip.

He threw his clothes on. The denim stuck to the dampness still on his legs, but he ignored the discomfort. His deodorant was also thrown on. There was very little maintenance going into Todd Bowden, odd considering how many girls fawned over him.

He heard his parents downstairs and hurried to join them.

***

The holiday ritual wasn't too bad. Without the fanfare that would have accompanied Christmas had Todd been even five years younger, gift exchange was relatively easy to choke down. Most of the things given to Todd were extremely practical; clothing, shoes, money. All were items that could be accepted without the phony smiles and hollow “thank you.”

Only one gift earned Todd's immediate disgust. It was a small paperback entitled Wowing the World: A Guide to Surviving College. He had cringed when he read the title. His parents' didn't notice. They only saw the smile that he forced onto his face and heard the “thank you” aimed at Monica.

“I didn't know if you'd like it.”

“I'm sure it'll be a huge help,” the smile still plastered onto his face, feeling numb and strangely permanent.

(I hate you. I hate you. I hate you.)

“Did you flip through it in the store? It even has a section...

(Blood gushing from her nose and busted mouth. Her eyes wide and pleading as Todd reaches behind him for the set of kitchen knives)

...discussing MLA and APA. This is amazing...

(I hate you. I hate you. **I hate you** )

...Thanks.”

***

Christmas dinner passed by in a blur of tastes and colours. Todd sat uninterested and somewhat rude. His parents' chatter slipped into the background. Everything seemed a thousand miles away, giving Todd the impression of dreaming or watching television.

(His parents, the modernized Cleavers, were talking animatedly to each other; Mrs. Bowden/Cleaver occasionally stopping to refill her husband's wine glass.

“You've really outdone yourself this year, honey,” Mr. Bowden/Cleaver said, rising his wine glass to his lips and drinking deeply. “This turkey is absolutely wonderful.”

“Thank you, dear,” She smiled maternally down at her husband.

Mr. Bowden/Cleaver smiled back before nightmarishly clamping his suddenly oversized teeth into dinner rolls and turkey legs. The sight was terrible and Todd shuddered. Involuntarily, Todd gripped the table. His fingers dug into the white cotton and for one horrible second, he thought his fingers were going to get stuck there. Somehow they would be pulled into the table...Somehow he would be pulled deep into the wood...)

“Are you listening to me, Todd?”

“Sorry, I sorta blanked out,” he straightened, prying his fingers from the tablecloth. “What did you say?”

“I was just saying how wonderful is is to have you home again. The house felt so empty with you gone. If you come home for the summer, one of your Dad's golf buddies said that he could get you a job. Why don't you tell him about it, honey?”

His Dad may have replied. Todd didn't know. His gaze had fallen on the table somewhere during his mother's declaration and he couldn't seem to pull his attention away from the turkey platter. His hands suddenly felt sweaty and he didn't need a mirror to tell him that there was a slight tick on his left eyelid again.

There on the table, inconspicuously tucked between the green beans and the Christmas turkey was the carving knife...

(Get a grip Todd...

...I left it in the graveyard...

...there was no graveyard...

...get a grip...

...get a …)

“Dad?” his eyes were still on the carving knife and he could feel his face burning.

“Yes, Todd?”

“Do you think that you can drive me back to school tomorrow?


	6. Chapater 6

Todd returned to school with several new items (except the college guide. He left that in his room at the Bowden residence. Yes sir, that baby was tucked on the shelf there and forgotten...Monica would see it, sure, but she'd think that he had merely forgotten it. She would sigh and tell herself to remind him where it was. She would, of course, forget and the book would stay there). Chris watched him put these things away with a mixture of curiosity and envy.

If Todd noticed, he didn't comment on it.

***

Chris laid on his bed; belly down, feet up in the air. His textbook (Introduction to Cultural Anthropology) was lying open and unread in front of him. Once in a while, he picked at the ratty cuffs of his sweater, but mainly he just stared, uninterested, at the page. Other students still ruled by adolescent behaviour would have thumbed through the book for the numerous pictures of tribal men and women unconstrained by Western modesty. Chris wasn't in the mood, had never, in fact, bothered flipping through the pages. Cultural Anthropology failed to hold his interest and all the nudie pictures in the world couldn't erase the fact that anthropology was featured in the text surrounding any otherwise engaging photos.

Giving up on studying, Chris brushed the textbook onto the floor. The two-hundred dollar textbook landed awkwardly, bending pages as it hit thin carpeting. Chris righted it, more out of boredom than an acknowledgment of its monetary value. As he did so, his eyes caught sight of a slim book pushed haphazardly under Todd's single bed.

It caught Chris' eye only because Todd was, by nature, not the type of person to have anything disorderly. Everything had a place and everything was in its place. And while Chris most certainly could respect that, he often wondered **how** anyone could train themselves to automatically put things back when finished with them. His own belongings were proof of his own, less than perfect, cleaning style.

Sliding half way off the bed, Chris picked up the book. His mind was screaming at him (“This is wrong...You're invading his privacy”), but he couldn't seem to stop himself. His hands seemed like that of a stranger's and utterly beyond his control. They opened the book without his consent and his eyes found themselves disobeying him and looking at the small blue ink marks littering the pages on the inside cover. Swastikas. There were several of them, all traced over, as if they were no harmless than the numerous other doodles done by millions of other young adults out of boredom.

Chris sucked air between closed teeth. His stomach turned over inside him and for one terrifying moment he was sure that he was going to vomit all over the book. He didn't. Instead, the same curiosity that forced him to pick up his roommate's book forced him to turn the page. The same small blue ink littered the lined pages as well. Morbid fascination caused page after page to fly before his wide eyes. Page after page was littered with an assortment of swastikas.

It was too much and the book closed with a snap. Moving on auto-pilot, the book was shoved back under Todd's bed.


	7. Chapter 7

Chris was only in the Common Room for two hours, long enough to watch Risky Business play on channel thirteen, but not long enough to participate in the card game that had followed. He hated Bullshit and had promised to begin the New Year by running whenever the dog-eared Bicycle desk entered any conversation. He also decided to enter the new year in the company of a good book following a good half hour “alone” session (that time usually involved a bottle of Johnson's hand lotion and his good old right hand). However, his New Year plans were ruined when he found the room already occupied.

Todd was cross-legged on the floor surrounded by the remains of his notebook (ripped ink swastikas visible in the mass of paper). Beside his right hand lay an overturned shot glass and a damp spot, presumably of liquor slowly soaking into the ugly brown carpeting. Todd's upper body was rocking.

“Todd? Are you okay?” Chris moved slowly towards his roommate, pity and confusion writ large across his handsome features.

“I hate drinking. Al-alcoholics are disgusting.”

“Todd, how much have you had?”

Todd looked at him through bloodshot eyes, a huge (drunken) smile plastered on his skull. He held out the half empty bottle for Chris to see, almost falling down in the process, “This much.”

“Okay buddy, I think you've had enough.”

He took the bottle away from him and placed it on the night table between their beds. Turning his attention to the next task, Todd was yanked to his feet and dumped on his bed. A bucket was left beside him, but by this time Todd had already left the waking world.

***

Chris lay in bed, listening to Todd's irregular snorts and snores. Despite this, Chris' right hand snaked under the elastic waist of his boxer shorts.

***

Todd's drunken slumber was a dreamless one.


	8. Chapter 8

Chris crawled on his hands and knees. Thick denim protected the flesh on his shins, but the heels of his hands were denied that luxury and, after only minutes, they felt painfully raw. But he couldn't get up, not until he finished picking up every piece of ripped swastika. Todd was moaning above him and every moan was both an indication of wakefulness and of growing darkness.

Desperation seized him and he frantically pulled at the papers, not caring when tuffs of carpet scratched at his exposed fingertips. He cried out in frustration. Tears welled up in his eyes, but he didn't let them fall. The chore too daunting, he fell to his stomach and closed his eyes..

***

Dr. Brunty's first year philosophy class was always full, not necessarily because it was needed by a vast number of students but because the students generally thought highly of the old professor. Friends told friends to take the course and most did. After finding him to be fair and honorable man, traits rare in any individual and doubly rare in college faculty, they recommended the course to others. Chris happened to be one of these others.

Dr. Brunty began the new semester in much the same way that he had been beginning his classes since the beginning of his teaching career, “This class is an introductory course, and through it, it is my hope that you will begin to question the world around you. We will discuss man's capacity for reason as well as how that reason has been used to explore and transform the world around him.”

He stopped at that point, taking a drink from the mug that sat waiting on his small desk. He drank slowly, as if he wasn't surrounded by students. Several began to draw in their notebooks as any of the excitement Dr. Brunty may have inspired quickly died.

Chris drew in his notebook as well. Swastikas were the only things on his mind and he drew them with tiny blue ink strokes.


	9. Chapter 9

Todd sat on his bed, a book, unopened, across his lap. The nightmares were back with a vengeance that he couldn't seem to prevent. If he killed anyone he would have to kiss his education goodbye. Todd wasn't a stupid boy by any means and killing people left bodies and, after leaving a trail of them in his hometown; it would be incredibly stupid to start dropping winos here as well. The alternative, drinking, wasn't really an option either as it would also affect his grades. So Todd suffered and as he suffered pounds began to drop from his frame and dark hollows appeared under each clear blue eye.

He opened the book but the text swam before his eyes.

***

The phone rang, startling him and the book dropped to the floor with a “clunk”.

“Hello?”

“Hello boy.”

Todd felt his blood run cold. He dropped the phone receiver. It fell without violence or disgust. On the bed, still cross-legged, Todd put his hands to his face and cried.

***

The phone rang (again) and Todd yelped. Scanning the floor quickly, he was close to declaring the phone lost, despite the ringing protests to the contrary, when his eyes fell upon the night table. The phone was there, perched in its cradle as if nothing had happened. Reaching out, hesitating for a second with his outstretched hand hanging in the air, he grabbed the phone. He clamped it to his ear with painful force.

“Hello?” he held his breath, waiting for a reply.

(“Hello boy”)

“Todd are you okay?” his mother's voice filled his ear. “I called earlier and you hung up on me.”

“What?” the question whirled around in his head and he suddenly felt sick.

(Get a grip...

what the fuck is wrong with you?)

“Are you still there?” She sniffed. “You're really quiet. Do you want me to call back later?”

“No, everything's okay. Are you okay?”

There was a pause before she spoke again. “Your father's been cheating on me. Oh Baby, I don't know what I am going to do.”

She burst into tears. Todd listened to her, unsure of what she expected him to do.

***

Chris' eyes were fixated on the basketball net above him. The ball touched his fingertips briefly before being propelled downwards. Both ball and man were readying themselves for the coming shot. Sweat formed on Chris' brow and he could feel his long sleeved workout shirt cling to the sweat forming in other places. He pushed those thoughts aside. The ball hugged his fingers one last time before flying through the air and crashing through the nylon netting.

“Yes!” He danced for a moment in victory before his eyes caught Todd's. He straightened out his posture and rigidly stuck out a hand. “Um....Good game.”

He stood there for a moment, hand outstretched, before Todd reached out to grab it. Just before contact was made, Chris pulled his hand back. Their eyes met. Accusation was clear in Chris' deep brown eyes.

“You let me win!” Chris stopped suddenly, “Wait a minute – Todd, what's wrong?”

Todd's features darkened, “I could ask you the same question, couldn't I? For days now, you act as if there is something wrong with me then you jump at the chance to go to the gym. Either you hate me...” His eyes lowered until they were level with Chris' groin, “you have something you're not telling me...”

The sound of flesh hitting flesh echoed through the gymnasium. Todd's eyes widened in shock and, before he could prevent the action, one hand shot up to cradle the insulted cheek. Chris, his hand still raised, bore into him with cold and angry eyes.

“How dare-”

“No, how **dare** you , Todd,” he dropped his hand, but not his gaze. “I'm trying to be your friend here, but I don't think you want any friends. You don't like me much do you? You don't like me because you like feeling like you're King Shit. Well, I used to be King Shit, Todd. I can play your games.”

“You cum-sucking little bitch,” Todd shrieked, his voice nearly hysterical. “You don't know anything about me or what I feel...I should slug you.”

“Go ahead if it makes you feel better,” Chris let his hand fall to his sidng.e. “Or, if it will actually make you feel better, you can tell me what got you upset enough to lose the game.”

Todd closed his eyes, momentarily stunned by how much Chris **sounded** like Kurt Dussander; reducing him to the hysterical child while he took on the adult role. He sounded just too fucking **reasonable**.

('“My boy,” he said. “Still you do not understand the situation. You never have right from the beginning...”'1

Hand no longer on his face, Todd's fists balled at his sides. For silent minutes, the two young men merely glared at each other. The known between them was so thick that Chris was practically choking on it. Todd's fists clenched and unclenched indecisively while Chris readied himself for the resulting blow...It never came.

“What do you want from me?” the question came out as a whisper.

“I want to get to know you. That's all. Take it or leave it.”

Chris picked up the basketball. He left the room. Todd stood alone under the abandoned basketball net for a long time before he finally picked his coat up from the floor and followed Chris out of the building.

1Stephen King. “Apt Pupil.” Different Seasons. New York: Penguin Putnnam Inc., 1983. p.201.


	10. Chapter 10

She was a pretty girl whose only major physical flaw was evident by the thick black frames resting on her aristocratic nose. She sat in the front row, diagonal to the teacher with a decent view of the blackboard. Every once in a while, she would look back at Todd and, when they happened to make eye contact, she smiled.

***

Todd was lying awake. The room dark, he couldn't see his hand in front of his face. “Psst. Are you awake?”

“Am now.”

“I'm..you know...sorry about what I said before...at the gym.”

Chris sat up, his voice no longer a whisper. “What does this mean?”

“I don't know,” he paused. “Don't make a big deal out of it.”

Chris laid back down and for awhile the room was silent, “Goodnight, Todd.”

“Yeah. You too.”

Neither fell asleep for quite some time.

***

Despite the number of times that Todd had been caught in various stages of undress, Todd had only walked in on Chris once. His shirt was off and, for the first time, he understood why his roommate was always adorned in long sleeves.

“Did you do all that?”

(Running a knife blade over skin. Blood beaded through the superficial cut before beginning to pour. The action was erotic in the same way that forcing a knife over someone else's flesh was. But more real. Real because the pain wasn't someone else's and the screams were your own. The image so vivid that Todd could almost see Chris doing it).

Chris pulled his shirt on quickly, as if he was caught with his hand down his pants. “Hi. I didn't hear you come in.”

“I noticed.”

(...could see himself pulling the knife away. He wrenched it hard enough for Chris to cry out from the resulting pain).

“Todd, I'm...uh...well, I'd appreciate it if this stayed between us. I mean,” he laughed, shrill and thin, “we all have things we would've loved to leave in our hometowns.”

(The knife in his hand was a familiar and oddly comforting sensation).

“Can you teach me how to do that? I mean, I know **how** , I just don't think I could,” he waited for an answer, a hand coming up and teeth pulling on the nail as the silence grew heavy.

“You're sick,” he tucked his shirt in with several sharp movements. It was if hiding the scars would take the idea out of Todd's head. “Don't play with knives, Todd. You have no idea what you'd be getting yourself into.”

***

Todd stared at the knife with fascination. The light caught the blade, reflecting it onto other surfaces; sometimes the wall, sometimes his face.

“Do it, boy.”

He turned around to face his tormentor. Dussander sat on his bed, legs crossed and shoes polished to a high shine. Todd scrutinized him for a moment, but found no trace of malice on the ancient features.

“Will it help?” His face coloured. “Will it help with the nightmares?”

“How nice,” his voice changed in pitch. The new voice was higher in a poor imitation of youth. “'Will it help with the nightmares?'”

“Don't--”

“Don't what? Don't mock you?” He laughed. “Why? It's funny. What you really mean is 'Will it make you go away?' Right boy?”

“Cut the bullshit and just tell me.”

“Alright. I'll 'cut the bullshit' as you so nicely put it.” He laughed again, hard old man laughter that left him gasping for air. “No, boy. It won't help. Do whatever you want. Cut yourself, kill people...maybe a few of those homeless drunks you used to be so fond of. It won't matter.”

Todd angrily threw the knife to the floor. “Why the fuck would I do it then?”

Dussander reached over, picking the knife gently from the floor and handed it back to the glaring young man. “For temporary relief, boy. In the end, we'll all do anything just to make something else stop...Even for such a little while.”

He continued laughing and Todd, overcome with passion, threw the knife at Dussander. He missed and it bounced off the wall, taking flecks of the plaster with it.

***

Rough hands were on his shoulders shaking him awake, “What the hell are you doing?”

Todd turned his confused eyes up, meeting his roommate's. “What?”

Chris rolled his eyes, “I tried calling you twice. The phone rang, like sixteen times while you've been up here sleeping on the goddamn floor. When I came up here you were so still, I thought you were dead.”

“Well I'm not,” he stretched.

“How fucking reassuring.” Chris sighed. “Look, I'm glad you're okay, but you have to **think**. There's a knife by the door and you lying motionless on the floor. I thought you slit your wrists or something.”

“By the door?” Todd was on his feet instantly. “I wasn't anywhere near the door!”

(Don't cry. Don't faint).

Despite his pleas, the world started graying around him. The last thing he heard...

(“Todd, are you okay?”)

...was Dussander laughing.


	11. Chapter 11

Chris thrust a glass of cold water into his friend's shaking hands, “We have to talk.”

Todd gratefully accepted the drink. He mumbled his thanks, but found his hands shaking too badly to do more than hold the glass firmly between his two hands, much like a toddler with his training cup. Seeing this, Chris helped steady the glass long enough for Todd to take two or three shallow sips. His hysterics prevented his pride from becoming an issue throughout the humiliating display of helplessness.

“Oh-kay,” he attempted to compose himself; however, the shock proved to make the task impossible. “Is this still about the dumb basketball game?”

Chris thought for a moment, “Not entirely. There's always been something dark about you..I guess I want to talk to you about a lot of things. I think you're in a bad way.”

“What--”

“Don't try to deny it,”he grew quiet again. “I found your book...with the swastikas...before you ripped it up.”

“Fuck,” Todd let his head fall back. “I don't want to deal with this right now.”

“That's the funny thing about dirty little secrets, Todd, you never do,” his hands twitched at his sides, itching to brush blond strands from the other man's pale face. “But if you don't let them go, they'll haunt you forever.”

***

Chris had been congratulating himself for his display of sexual restraint right up until the moment his lips crushed Todd's slightly parted ones, tongue coaxing apart the barrier of teeth to allow a complete intrusion. Although Chris registered all of the new sensations; the way Todd's faintly of Cherry Kool-Aid in a stark contrast to the cool peppermint stubbornly clinging to the smooth even teeth, he was only faintly aware that he was kissing Todd and not a fantasy.

Their tongues desperately fought, wrestling and struggling for some type of release until, suddenly, Todd pulled violently away. The broken kiss hovered between them, silently bleeding pleas of frustration marked by blatant disbelief. As if in response, one hand reached up to wipe the spittle from his swollen lips. His shocked blue eyes stared at his wet fingers. In front of him, Chris wiped his own full lips with the same shocked and vacant stares. He was so consumed with the dampness on his lips that he didn't comprehend that he had been punched in the face until the swelling heat on his face made it obvious. His gaze shifted, mouth agape to Todd.

“You cocksucking little queer! What did you think? That I would just lean back and demand that you shove your dick up my ass? You're disgusting, like a lousy bit--”

Blood rushed to Chris' face and, even as he wished for the ground to open underneath him, his hand involuntarily shot out and punched. When he left the room moments later, he left his roommate spouting short-winded profanities from the bedroom floor. Todd's retaliation was quick, three days later he was seeing Pamela White, the sweet little thing from his world history class.


	12. Chapter 12

Her hand was on the crotch of Todd's Levi jeans and the disappointment writ large across her delicate features meant that she hadn't failed to notice Little Todd's lack of response. Instead of a growing mound under her slender hand, there was only a mocking softness and she was not too thrilled about **that** ladies and gentlemen.

“What's wrong?” she asked, her voice impatient.

“Nothing,” he leaned back on her couch cushions, mentally adding (and not without spite): what kind of slut feels a guy up on the second date?

“Nothing?” it was her turn to sulk and she did so quite prettily; her bottom lip pushed out in a cute little pout.

The pout failed to make an impression with Todd. Seeing this, it quickly turned into a leer that vaguely reminded him of young Becky Trask. That thought did nothing to improve his mood and, if it wasn't for the situation with Chris, he would have changed her status back to single right then and there. As it was, he didn't and she sighed.

Removing herself from her couch long enough to hike up her skirt and find a new seat straddled across Todd's lap. “Don't be mad at me...Maybe you just need some incentive...” Her strawberry red lips moved in, stopping level with his ear, “I'm not wearing any underwear.”

Under her spread hips, Todd remained stubbornly asleep and she ground herself into him attempting to remedy that situation. As she moved, she leaked her disgusting fluids all over his clad groin.


	13. Chapter 13

Todd stormed into the residence, nostrils flaring and his finger nails already brutally digging their crescent moons into the palms of both hands. The burgundy and gold school jacket was whipped off his body and thrown onto the bed with movements so violent, in another set of circumstances would have one probably believing that the jacket had boldly insulted his mother (perhaps with one of those witty Stephen King-isms such as “your mother sucks hard ones”).

Across the room, perched upon his own bed, Chris gave no reaction. The pages on his lap turned steadily, his mouth forming words with exhilarating speed. This lack of response did nothing to improve Todd's mood and, much like a spoiled toddler, his anger shifted targets from Pamela to Chris.

He reached out, smacking the book from Chris' hands to the floor. Chris looked up, face already flushed with anger. He was on his feet in a second, hands balled at his sides and ready to swing. “What the fuck is wrong with you?”

Todd, his own eye flashing, glared at him, **daring** him to punch. Chris uses all of his will power to relax his fists. They almost refuse and, despite the loud protests from the rational side of his brain, they itch to blacken at least one of Todd's pretty blue eyes. In the end, a fist does shoot out, landing on the side of Chris' face. The complexion bursts into a flaming red patch. Chris' own rage unleashed, he hits back, hard. The result is a full-fledged fist fight.

In minutes the assigned R.A was in the room, whistle blowing and arms waving. The whistle let out three short ear-blasting rounds, spittle flying with the force of his blows. Someone, Todd or Chris, yells for him to shut-up, but the demand was barely heard, interrupted by one last blast before the whistle fell from the student's lips.

“I'm writing both of you up.” The words broke the silence that hadn't really had a chance to settle, “And don't think that I'm not serious.”

He pushed his glasses up his acne scarred nose before scurrying toward the still open door. He stopped once, pushing at his glasses again, eyes taking note of their room number. Pulling a thick pad from his back pocket, he ripped the pen from behind his ear and used it to noisily scratch the numbers down. Then, with a look of smug self-satisfaction, he continued his journey back to his own room and the pile of Playgirl magazines he snatched from his sister's closet over Christmas break.

Behind him, Todd and Chris waited for him to leave, sharing identical looks of amusement and disgust. As soon as “Snivel” Shively left, Chris let out a short bark of laughter.

“I'm writing both of you up!” His voice took on a slightly higher pitch and he reached up, hand moving as if to push an invisible pair of eye glasses back into place. After this movement, the illusion broke. The high-pitched mimicry giving way to another laugh, “Man, that guy is a dick.”

Todd nodded in agreement, their uneasy friendship rekindled.


	14. Chapter 14

She pushed the hair from her face, purposely letting it fall back in small perfect waves before giving Todd her attention again. “Are you dumping me?”

Todd paused, thoughts already running through a mental list of consequences. College, not like high school, meant that the vast majority wouldn't know who he was, much less care who he dated; but ask any idiot who the campus butt-fuckers were and there'll always be a list of names. A long list and someone was bound to have added Christopher Tomes to that stupid fucking list. “No, I just think that we should cool down for awhile, see other people.”

The hurt indifference disappeared from her face with frightening speed. The lip curled, baring teeth no less perfect than Todd's own, and the eyes slanted becoming almost feral in nature. When she spoke, her voice came out in a hiss, unpleasantly reminding Todd of Sunday School sermons long ago, sitting quietly and trying not to scratch. The wool of his suit had been hot and uncomfortable and he spent most sermons trying to dip small fingers just under the hem and scratch. Scratch until his fingers left huge welts across his belly or his back. He would be ashamed of those thoughts, ashamed of wanting to hurt the body that had been created in God's Image, even while some indifferent bitch churned out the usual Catholic bullshit. He would be imagining raised skin spotted with beads of blood while she raced around the room, looking like a lunatic penguin, spewing out The Fall of Man like projectile vomit.

“Who is she?” She hissed.

“There is no one else,” his voice stayed calm, rational (And even if there was, what boyfriend would admit to **that** ), “I've been having some problems lately, my parents are divorcing, and I guess...”

She cut him off with a hug, “Oh god! That's awful! My parents divorced too! I remember feeling...”

He nodded, his face buried in the scent of her hair (whore) and trying hard to keep his penis down (his body's natural reaction to the vision in his head). It was one of his new favourites; in it, pretty little Pammy White was looking at him, eyes wide and make-up smeared from crying. Under her expensive brand-name skirt, blood pooled from her gaping twat. The same blood would be staining his erection. She would look at that erection, and the mouth that was always begging for sex would be pleading, _Don't hurt me anymore. Please Todd._

***

After Todd left, Pamela White got on the phone and dialed the number of her best friend Abby, Abby called Kat and Kat talked to Trisha Stevens on the bus on the way to the mall. By the morning of the next day, all of her small circle and many of their uncaring acquaintances knew that Todd and Pam had broken up. By the end of that day, Pam had also learnt that her ex-boyfriend's room mate was a flaming queer. Recalling their own relationship problems, her suspicions grew as her eyes narrowed.


	15. Chapter 15

“That fucking bitch said what?” Red Todd's fists clenched, ready to punch through a wall, or, better yet, Pam's big-fat mouth. That thought, the thought of Pam's mouth bleeding, a tooth loosened from its socket, is almost enough to bring the shadow of a smile to his lips. “I'm going to fucking kill her.”

Rick Mathers ran a hand through his shaggy hair. He outweighed Todd by a good hundred pounds, but that knowledge didn't keep his hands from shaking. The man was scary when he was pissed and Rick didn't want that anger directed at him; no way, no how. “She said you were one of those fagolas. Man, we told her she was stoned or something. No one's talking her seriously and Theo said that he's going to give her a scare that she'll never forget.”

“Theo's an asshole.” The hands, knuckles white, clenched impossible tighter. The scabs on his palms broke, the blood pushing up under his nails. Later, he'll look at these, disgusted. Now, the pain was a calming sensation, a way to focus on something other than Pamela's screaming strawberry red slut mouth. “He couldn't scare a stupid cockroach. I'll handle Pam.”

Something about the way that he said it brought shivers up Rick's spine. The room was comfortably warm, but Rick was suddenly very, very cold.

***

He waited outside her parents' home. The window on the second floor was hers; he could almost see her there. He could almost see the Cinderella light fixture, her fluffy pink drapes, even the snow globe on her dresser (a gift from her father when she graduated Kindergarten). Pamela was in there. Yeah, a slut like her probably never left her bed unless her parents were home. In fact, Todd was pretty sure that some guy was giving it to her right now. There was no car in the driveway, but anyone could park around the block, or take the bus, much as Todd did himself.

He stared up at her window, looking for lights and finding none. Slowly he walked back to the bus stop, two pairs of pants rubbing against one another (and with one of those pairs being corduroy it was driving him bug-shit). The knife he had swiped from the main Cafeteria fit snugly in between his waist bands.

Above the street, unaware of her ex-boyfriend's activities, Pamela slept. Her parents were gone for dinner; her head was pounding too violently to join them. She dreamt of Todd. Todd, with a dark face and a butcher knife, was chasing through unnamed streets. She woke once, a thin blanket of sweat covering her body, a shallow pool also between her breasts and clinging to flimsy nightgown. One glance at the alarm clock told her that there wasn't much point in getting out of bed, so she fell back to sleep. There were no more dreams. By the time she woke up, seven thirty-ish the next morning, any bad dreams were forgotten completely.


	16. 16

Todd quickly stripped out of his clothes, knife easily slipping under his mattress, “Stupid, stupid, stupid.” And it was. Stupid to practically stalk her, stupid to tell Rick that he'd 'take care of her' before running over to her house with a knife and **really** fucking stupid to have a knife under his goddamn mattress. All he'd need is the R.A to pull a surprise inspection and he'd be toast. He'd be expelled, he'd be fucked over, he's be in one hell of a stinking mess.


	17. Chapter 17

Dick Bowden called and Todd gratefully spent the weekend at his father's new apartment. While there, he also picked up his old Winchester .30-.30.


	18. Chapter 18

It was torture – the urge to go to her home was unbelievably strong and, against his better judgment, the idea of killing her in her own bed had tremendous appeal. And when you got right down to it, the “meat” of the matter as his high school law teacher used to say, wasn't one less whore just as good as one less wino? All women were whores: Pam, his mother. Dick Bowden had given her the roof over her head and now he wasn't even allowed to live there. She was probably already dating. _I want to feel attractive again, Todd-o,_ she'd whine. As if she didn't already know. As if a dozen guys wouldn't be lined up, especially if she gave out.

He closed his eyes; blocking out the thoughts of Monica's sex life, and embraced the small voice that shattered the empty feeling inside, _“Kill them all, boy. You_ _ **must**_ _kill them all.”_

When he opened his eye again he felt better. So good, in fact, that he even called Monica. She was on her way to the grocery store, she said. It was nice to hear from him, she said. She missed his father, but was still pursuing a divorce, she said. A million other mundane sentences, but, in its own way it was good. Once more for old time's sake, as the saying goes. After he hung the receiver, with a quick “I love you too, Monica-o”, he cleaned his rifle.

Hand up and down the barrel, much like his hand often went up and down his intimate parts. He dreamt and old dream. Dussander was taking readings and he was fucking some Yiddish twat on the laboratory table, a dildo snugly over his penis. One hand polished his gun, one hand brushed over the bulge in his jeans. By the time his spunk began to spread through the denim, the girl lying on the table wore his mother's face.


	19. Chapter 19

He broke her window, the glass spilling inside her room even before the noise of his entry reached her ears. She sat up, mouth hanging from her slack jaw, “What the fuck?”

His sneakers crunched the glass as he made his way to her, his right hand reaching into his waist band, drawing his rifle. With a round of ear-shattering blasts, the gun jumped, leaving her slinky night dress stained with spreading red petals, “Todd?” She reached towards him, slender red fingers spreading before curling as her hand dropped. Fingers hit her pink comforter, leaving red leaves among the pink and yellow blossoms. She slumped forward, her hair forming a brief curtain before her cheek smacked against her bed. She stilled, fingers limp, her life's blood pooling beneath her. The distance echoed the sounds of the approaching sirens.

For the first time, he felt remorse. There was no arousal in this, just this tiny voice suggested that maybe, just **maybe,** Pam didn't deserve this.

***

The phone was ringing. One, two, three times; stopped, then began again (one, two). Todd sleepily groped for it, receiver almost slipping on the short journey to his ear, “Hello?”

“Todd?” Pamela's voice filled his ear, “I need you. Can you come over?”

***

Her door was locked. He banged on it, pounding until his fists felt tender and bruised, but there was still no answer. Running, he jumped the fence, gaining access to the carefully tended backyard. His sneakers left deep prints in the soft grass. Heart pounding, he tore up the steps, reaching the back door only slightly out of breath. Inside he could hear her screaming...Pam's screams.

“Help!” The screams gave way to airy words, “Please...Todd...Please.”

The door wasn't locked and he found himself standing in the White's kitchen. The tile was immaculate except for the long smears of blood working into the cracks and grooves in the tasteful floral design. In the midst of the growing pool, Pam sat, hands clutching her abdomen. Between her fingers, more blood leaked.

“What the fuck?” Disbelief coloured Todd's blue eyes, mixed with anger. Standing over the leaking body, Dussander stood. Eyes laughing, the knife, the one that was supposed to be under his mattress, gleaned in his upraised fist. “W-what?”

Before he could say anything else, he lowered his arm. The knife blade scraped against the seam of his jeans. He watched it leave a thin line of blood – Pam's blood. In front of him, she stopped crying. One lone tear trekked down her cheek, turning at her chin and falling to the kitchen tile with a fascinating “splat.” The voice in his head was laughing and the floral tile melted into a light pink bed spread.

“I don't want this anymore,” He whimpered, falling to the glass littered carpeting. “Please.”

This wasn't a wino. This wasn't something that the police could ignore. This was a mistake. And his life was over. When they cuffed him he was laughing. It was an old man's laugh.


	20. Epilogue

Swastikas filled the page; line after line of small, neat shapes. The other hand held a ripped newspaper article. The title read: All-American Boy Takes Own Life in Prison.

“Chris?”

Chris looked up from his notebook, eyes momentarily wide, “Todd? But you're dead!”

Todd leans in, close enough for Chris to feel soft puffs of air against his bottom lip. Their lips brush momentarily, “Let's talk about your stepfather, okay?”

His full pink lips turned up in a subtle smile. Chris found his own smile answering Todd's.

The End


End file.
